Shakespeare and Synaesthesia in the Park

Memories . . .
The mirror of my mind seems so clear
though they tell me it’s cracked across the middle

The City built this stage in the Park
so that southerners might come to know a smattering of culture
An oval of stage capping an ellipse of stones
beside this undulating velvet creek the color of ghosts

Tonight the sable night wind runs riotous
somehow angry that there might still be leaves on trees
Tonight the waxing inconstant moon feigns warmth as she
trails luminous streamers of cirrus mucus across a sky the color of loss

Alone on this stage of memories
the turning world has found new ways to fracture my stone cold heart
I stood just like this
pouring my heart out through my mouth

You’re not supposed to say the name
but what can the gods do to me that they haven’t already done?

You hair the color of rock and roll
Eyes are the color of a pewter sky foretelling tragedy
Your voice, a promise of rain
Here, under the lights, your smell
the humor of every adolescent male’s dream

All who love are damned
All who love actors, doubly so

In memory you say, “Teach me . . .
teach me poetry”

the artistry of the high clouds across a cyan sky

We do not touch
not unlike the stars in their constellations
on the table
the flickering candles dance
in your eyes

Youth has the power to swiftly pass
half the hours I have
have vanished
pain and knowledge
is a wisdom of sorts

You cook spring onions washed in the rain
with yellow millet
you cook with soy, sesame oil and ginger
You are saying

I fill my wine-cup
ten times over
trying to satisfy the beast in my chest
that wants to eat the world
and having that
eat the sun
and moon and stars
and then . . .
nasty beast

While I was ranting, you were speaking
I look up lost again. . .
You say
“The bright flowers have gone.”
but you don’t look sad

You say
“Reading unfolds the heart
like an ever opening flower.
Writing is the means by which you poets
fold the origami of existence.”

You say
“You and I
we could meet in this thought
though we can never hold each other

I say
“The artistry of the high clouds across a cyan sky
is almost worth sailing the twisted currents
of the cutting winds.”

After the Rain

And she is standing there in the parking lot
under a night sky the color of poetry
A sky crying spring tears
and every gesture
every nuance of expression
every line of her body
look of her eye
“Hold me
Please hold me
for the love of God please hold me
Why can’t you just hold me”

I put my arm around her
and we watch a watery moon
take the stage above the world

The Belief in Silence

She said
“I believe in silence
It is the one true religion
Everything ends in stillness”

Her heart falls from her eyes
The sun slides through the horizon
Slides through the crack in the world
The sky can no longer bear the weight

She said
“Why do we never see the moon
until the sun is gone?”

A large, languid, silent, summer moon
reclines in a bed of milky clouds
something calls across the years of silence

The tiniest sounds. . .
a bird
unheard in the rush and thunder of the day

She smiles

Our individual lives are our own . . .

Chyfrin walks under the morning sky
His greyness blends with the landscape
So that your eyes can never rest on him
He sits on a granite rock
At the edge of the lake

“Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Shaped thy fearful symmetry?
….. William Blake”

He removes an orange from a fold in his cloak
He starts to peel and eat the orange

“There is a flaw
In the symmetry of yin/yang pairs

the pair of Pleasure and Pain
there is a third option ~ Numb
Love and Hate ~ Indifference
Fear and Courage ~ Apathy
Passion and Apathy ~ Ignorance

The Universe is not obliged
To conform to our prejudices
To our desires for yin/yang answers”

Chyfrin sequesters the peel and seeds
Then draws a symbol in the sand
No one can translate it

“It sometimes seems
That the Nature of things
Is sloppy when doing her sums

Some are given money and good looks
Some have one or the other
Some have neither

Some find love
Well . . . theoretically
Though its hard to find documented cases . . .
I digress

Some love too much
And some love too little
And its never in the proportions
You would expect”

He picks up a stone
And casts it into the mirror smooth lake
Breaking the perfect symmetry

“As long as enough babies
Are born
Our individual lives
Are our own . . . “

Wouldn’t Trade it for the World

“How do you win this game?”
She asked

I can’t win
You change the rules
When I win
But I’d rather lose to you than to myself

what’s the secret here?”

Shhhhh . . .
We’re not allowed to say it
The secret is in another place
A place where you drop things
When you really don’t want to find them again
The secret is in a place where words are only
Pointing toward infinite meanings
But then I am using words right here
So I’ll stop
So that you can hear me

“All of us
get through childhood
trying to make sense of Life
and when we think we’ve got it
it’s most certain we don’t.”

Couldn’t have said it better with Yeats

“It really is a mess
when you think about it.”
She turns
Lost in thought

It’s only a mess if you think of it
with the other side of your mind
Symmetry can frighten even the
most callused
But it can also explain Night
to the Day

“You’d think with infinity being what it is
I could come up with something more than
this mess of mind.”

Your mind is a mess
like clouds on a spring afternoon
A mess like Mount Rainer
A mess like the Oceans in a storm

Oh I like the occasional chess match
And the odd differential equation
I like every other computer program written in C
And even a few haiku
But the wonder of you
The wonder of me

Wouldn’t trade it for the World